


I See Your Colours and I'm Dying of Thirst

by taking_sweet_time



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Louis, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Harry's Whale Tattoo, M/M, Pain, Painplay, Riding, Smut, Tattooed Harry, Tattooed Louis, Tattoos, Top Harry, tattoo artist!louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:34:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taking_sweet_time/pseuds/taking_sweet_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry asks Louis for a tattoo, but forgets to mention that he's got a little bit of a... problem when it comes getting inked. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
<p>Or, a very dumb fic about Harry's fucking whale (maybe) tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See Your Colours and I'm Dying of Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> Hello yes the following events are very unsafe and not hygienic at all, these are very dumb and silly boys in this fic. Please don't fuck your tattoo artist in the middle of a job unless they happen to be Louis Tomlinson. This has been a PSA <3

“A whale.”

Louis blinks.

“A whale?”

“A whale.”

“I…a _whale_?”

“Yes, a large marine mammal. On my left thigh.”

“You want a whale on your thigh.”

“Yes, please,” And now his client is the one looking confused, because apparently he doesn’t seem to think there’s anything odd about strolling into a tattoo parlour wearing nothing but women’s jeans and a lavender sweater, and asking Louis to tattoo Moby Dick onto his femur. But Louis knows better.

“You’re sure? You’re sure you want me to permanently ink a white bull whale into your skin. Forever.”

“A white bull _sperm_ whale,” the pretty boy corrects primly, rising up and down happily on his toes. _Oh,_ Louis thinks sardonically, _Well_ that _makes sense._

“I’ve got loads of other designs,” is all he says, because though it’s kind of tattoo-artist code to respect the aesthetic opinions of the clientele, he feels morally obligated to stop this disaster before it begins, to save this poor, purple boy from his own bad decisions. He pulls from the shoppe counter a thick binder, stuffed with laminated copies of tattoo sketches and photos, and pushes it almost desperately toward the boy.

“No, thank you,” he says in a low gravel, remarkably polite for someone who is being mocked (to some degree) by a loser like Louis. “I’d like a whale.”

“Mate, could you walk in a straight line for me? Just real quick.”

“I’m not drunk,” the boy laughs, and something unexpectedly soft and tinkly falls from his throat despite his raspy bass of a voice. “Just say no, me.” And he raises hand to proudly display a worn rubber bracelet reading… It… it says… And Louis’ wondering for a moment if _he’s_ the drunk one, because this man is actually wearing a bracelet reading “A happy me is drug free!” Complete with a chipping white smiley face, missing an eye after its use.

“I hope you won’t mind that I smoke on the job, then,” is all he can say as he whips out a lighter and trods wretchedly into the back room, the smiling boy hot on his heels.

“Does that mean you’ll give me my sperm whale?” he asks, brightly, and Louis can’t reach for his joint fast enough.

“How old are you, kid?” He asks instead, ignoring his question. “You certainly look like you’re out of school, but…” And he eyes the bracelet proudly cupping his wrist.

“Oh, this?” The boy laughs, “God-daughter brought it home from kindergarten after anti-drug week. I’m her role model,” he preens, doing that thing again where he stretches up tall on his toes and clasps his hands behind his back.

“Yet, you’re sending her the message that it’s a good idea to tattoo a sperm whale onto your thigh,” Louis cocks and eyebrow, and _fuck_ , the boy giggles, completely unbothered.

“Whatever, m’ old enough to make my own decisions,” he smiles, and Louis cocks his head in question. “Twenty-one,” he adds.

“Well, I see you’re not new to the trade,” Louis marks dryly, nodding toward the little spot of ink hiding under the boy’s long, lavender sweater sleeve. At this, he perks, eagerly pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and turning his forearms toward Louis, and _oh_ , Louis realises, he’s not unfamiliar with tattoos at all. On the contrary, he’s absolutely littered with them, proudly wearing all sorts of bizarre images that Louis would never have imagined – a dusty rose, a thick bible, an anchor, a very anatomically correct heart, and… is that… is that a _mermaid_? With boobs, and everything. He’s wearing boobs on his forearm, and he could not possibly look more delighted about it.

“I have a butterfly on my belly,” he says sheepishly, tugging his sweater up to his ribs to reveal a pair of blunt, strong hipbones, squarely cut abdominal muscles and, yes, a fucking butterfly. Right above his little bellybutton. “I really like tattoos,” he adds, rocking back down onto his heels.

“I see,” Louis says, taking a very long drag from his joint and shaking his head. “Well, this will take awhile. Better have a sit, make yourself comfy.” And the boy grins, doing exactly that as he flops into the empty chair and gives his bun a fond pat. Louis wonders vaguely how long his hair is; it’s a little difficult to tell with the tie in place. “On your thigh, right?” he mumbles, finishing off the last of his weed and crumbling the hot ash between his fingers.

“Yes, sir,” the boy nods, folding his hands a blinking expectantly up at Louis.

“Why’d you decide to wear skinny jeans if you knew you’d be getting it there?” Louis asks curiously, and he’s surprised when, for the first time, the boy flushes, lips pursing and cheeks turning a feint shade of bubble-gum pink. A bite of his teeth turns his mouth red, and Louis quickly turns toward the wall to prepare his gun.

The boy mumbles something unintelligible, and busies himself by handing Louis a piece of folded paper containing his tattoo. It’s… well, it’s a whale; that much is certain, and it looks like it’s been taken straight from the cover of _Moby Dick_. Hopefully this boy is a literary aficionado and not just… obsessed with sperm whales. But he has the worrying feeling that this kid is definitely the latter.

“You want any colour?” he asks, looking up once the boy has let go of his bottom lip, and he shakes his head, little bun bouncing. “All right. Well, I suppose you ought to take your trousers off. You’re wearing pants, right?” And the boy blushes again, this time shooting Louis a cheeky nod and smile as he reaches for his button, and _wow_ , that isn’t an image Louis needs to be thinking about right now.

“Unfortunately,” the boy chips, and who the hell _is_ he?

Louis gives his head a small shake, turning back toward the counter for a sponge and a bottle of antiseptic. He douses his hands in a sanitizer and pulls on pair of the gloves he hates so much. When he turns back, the boy has kicked off his tight little jeans and is resting quite comfortably in nothing but his ridiculous sweater and a pair of small, floral boxers. _Tight_ floral boxers that, should Louis look too closely, would tell him much more than he needs know about what this boy’s got between his legs. In that case, he averts his eyes (he’s a professional, thank you very much) and feels himself go slightly warm when he crouches to the floor to adjust the leg rest on the chair.

“Good?” he asks, and the boy stretches his left leg out onto the bench and nods, drumming his fingers lightly on his unoccupied knee.

“I’ve already shaved,” he says proudly, like he’s just brought home a good mark from school, and _shit_ , he has, Louis realises as he looks down. But it isn’t just his thigh he’s shaved; the boy’s gone and shaved his entire leg – both of them – and Louis is faced with quite a lot of soft, white skin that seems to stretch for miles in the little chair.

“Um, good,” he coughs, throat dry, “That’s… good. I mean. Now I don’t have to do it myself. So.”

“That was the idea,” the boy says, eyes twinkling pale and green in the shallow light of the parlour. “So, I was thinking from here,” he thumbs at the edge of his pants, “to here.” And he touches a point halfway to his knee.

“That big, huh?” Louis asks, because the area is large enough to safely cushion both of Louis’ outstretched hands (not that… not that that’s a _thing_ he’s thinking about).

“Yeah. Whales are big.” And Louis might need another joint.

“All right, pal, it’s your call,” he shrugs, uncapping the antiseptic and soaking the little sponge.

“Harry,” the boy says, and Louis looks blankly up at him. Did he just call him Harry?

“No, it’s, um, Louis.” He says, and the boy laughs.

“No, _I’m_ Harry. Not Pal.”

“Oh,” and Louis feels very, very stupid.

“That wasn’t a move, was it? An excuse to tell me your name?” The boy grins, and Louis almost wishes it was, because the reality is that he is just very, very stupid.

“Sorry, Harold,” he snorts, “I’m actually just very, very stupid.”

“I hope you’re not,” Harry smiles, “You’re going to be sticking needles in me all afternoon, aren’t you?”

“You sound nervous,” Louis notes dryly, and Harry takes a moment to respond, because Louis chooses then to grab his knee and wipe down his thigh with antiseptic.

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head, “Like I said. I really like tattoos.”

“Should be a picnic, then, yeah?” Louis asks, pointedly keeping his eyes on the smooth skin and away from the floral pants burning in his peripheral vision. It’s not like it helps; Harry must do bloody squats every morning because little tendons are jumping and tautening with every touch of Louis’ fingers. “It’s a pain having to ink people with nerves. They squirm.”

“I’ll try my hardest to stay still,” Harry smiles, wriggling his toes. Louis swabs the skin with iodine and transfers a dull image of Harry’s whale onto his thigh with solution. “This is gonna look sick,” Harry says giddily, looking down at the stencil, and Louis can do nothing but purse his lips with a minute shake of his head.

“All right,” he says, clapping Harry’s knee with a quiet slap. “Let’s get to it.” He drags a small cart topped with messy equipment to his side, uncapping a well of very black ink. He turns on his machine and dips a sterile, single-tipped needle into the well. “You’re okay, right? You don’t need to hold a washcloth, or anything?”

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head. “Do your thing.”

So Louis does. Leaning intently over Harry’s thigh, he pushes down on his leg to lock it carefully in place and brings the needle to the tip of the ridiculous whale’s tail. He spends several minutes outlining the design, refilling the needle every so often until he’s traced the silhouette with black.

Harry’s done very well, keeping quite still with exception to the quad muscles that twitch with every press of the gun. When Louis finally looks up, however, he frowns, because Harry has gone rigid in his seat.

His lip is back in his mouth, being both sucked and bitten raw, and his jaw is clenched so tightly that Louis can count each blue vein trickling down Harry’s neck.

“Whoa, mate,” Louis says, blinking in surprise. He would have thought, having all the tattoos that he does, that Harry would be used to the pain, if not comfortable with it. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Harry nips, knuckles tight, and as Louis draws the gun back, he seems to relax, sinking slightly in the chair. A shaky breath leaves his mouth. “Feel great.”

“You don’t look great,” Louis notes mildly, and Harry cracks an eye open, the bright simper back on his face once more.

“Don’t I?” he asks, eyebrow cocking, and Louis snorts, turning his gaze back toward his cart to change the needle. “Was that a yes?” Harry pushes, looking quite at ease once more as he toes Louis in the back with his right leg.

“God, you’re annoying,” Louis mutters, definitely not smiling, and Harry grins, settling back into the chair and subtly running a gently thumb over the mermaid on his arm. “You sure you’re okay?” Louis asks again; he doesn’t want Harry having, like, a panic attack or anything.

“Grand,” Harry sighs, flexing and curling his foot as Louis prepares the machine with ink.

“You tell me if you want me to stop,” Louis warns him, giving his knee a tap, and Harry nods. Louis cups his leg again, the skin feeling oddly smooth and soft with the lack of body hair, and he lowers the needle to the tiny eye of the whale. His thigh tautens again, going firm under Louis’ touch, but when Louis glances up, Harry gives him a small, tight nod, and Louis hesitates for only a moment before continuing.

He’s finished the eye and is halfway through the first fin when Harry begins to squirm. _Dammit._ Louis hates when people move while he's working; is he _trying_ to wreck his whale? He sighs, wiping gently at the red skin and setting his machine down on the cart.

When he looks up, Harry looks even worse than he had before, brow furrowed and lip torn with the bite of his teeth, knuckles stark white on the arm of the chair. His hair has fallen from its little bun and is curling around his flushed ears, dark and silky and much longer than Louis had expected, and beside his red mouth he’s gone white as cream in the black chair.

Louis swallows.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Louis hushes him, blowing gently on the ink and giving his knee a gentle squeeze, but at this, Harry inhales once, quick and thin, and goes rigid. “All right, all right,” Louis says hastily, raising his hands and falling back onto his heels, careful not to touch him. “Listen, if you want to stop here and keep going tomorrow—”

“No,” Harry breathes, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut tight. “No, I’m fine.”

“If it’s too painful…”

“It’s not, it doesn’t hurt—”

“Harry,” Louis says, and Harry’s fingers clench, “You don’t have to be brave. Lots of people choose to—”

“No,” Harry says again, voice slowly growing rough as he shakes his head, “I—It doesn’t—It’s not painful, that’s not it.” Louis blinks, staring calculatingly up at the writhing boy in his chair and wondering whether or not it was ethical to continue. Harry was clearly letting his ego get the best of him, gritting his teeth and ignoring what was obviously intolerable pain. Why else would he be losing it like this? He exhales, breath shallow and trembling, and flexes his hands. “Please?” he asks, “I really want to finish this today.”

“If… If you’re sure…” Louis says skeptically. “But I swear to God, if you start crying, I’m kicking you out.” At this Harry chuckles shakily, sniffing and tucking a damp curl behind his ear, and settles back in the chair. He gives Louis a nod, and Louis pause before reluctantly filling his needle and bending back over Harry’s leg. He grips his knee tight in an effort to keep him still, and the skin burns hot beneath the latex. Louis shakes his head, cursing under his breath and swallowing once more before touching the needle to Harry’s thigh.

This time, there is no delay in his reaction; Harry goes stiff the moment Louis brushes the ink into his skin, and he pulls the machine away just in time to miss the jolt of his leg. This isn’t a normal thing; usually, when his clients are hurting, they shy away from the needle, press themselves back into the chair, go limp as they whimper through the pain. This… this is strange, the way Harry now arches slightly up off the back of the chair, the way he curls and braces his feet, the way his blood boils, warming Louis’ fingers with each touch. This is…

“Do you want me to stop?” Louis murmurs, hand pressing Harry’s knee into the bench as he squirms.

“No, I…” Harry grunts, a hot blanket of breath coating his chin, something small and heavy and high and… and all too familiar to Louis’ ears. “C’mon, I want to… Just do it, just…” He opens his eyes, and the green has all but vanished, dissolved in the pools that black that have spread like the ink on Louis’ fingers. “Look,” he finally sniffs, grabbing tight to the arms of the chair. “Not crying.” Louis smiles slightly, heart beating quickly in his ears. He can’t tell if he’s nervous that this boy is completely falling apart in his empty parlour, or if he’s… if…

“You want me to?” he asks, voice quiet, and Harry gulps, nodding, sucking his lip back into his mouth and biting hard, hard enough to send a warm, damp flush crawling over his white cheeks. _Shit._

Abandoning all logic and reasoning, Louis wipes his wet palms on his jeans and presses the needle back into Harry’s skin.

And that’s when he hears him moan.

He doesn’t retract the machine so much as drop it, and the humming thing clatters to the floor with a sharp clack, vibrating on the linoleum. Louis fumbles for the switch, and as the machine dies, he sinks forward onto his knees to grab Harry by the thighs, to keep him quiet and still.

“Hey, calm—” He begins, turning to peer up at Harry, but he freezes.

Because Harry is hard.

He had put so much effort into avoiding those stupid, flowery pants, to keeping his gaze deliberately away from the swell hiding behind the hibiscuses, but there’s no secret to what’s hiding there now.

_I really like tattoos._

Fuck.

“Keep—” Harry pants, hips wriggling against the black leather, inches from Louis’ nose, “Shit, keep… going…”

“Should I?” Louis muses, and without his intent, his voice has gone from concerned to… to something else. Something low, something that grates his throat as it leaves his mouth, something that rasps on the tip of his tongue.

“Yes, please, I… I need to finish t-today…”

“Are you going to twitch again? We don’t want to mess up your tattoo.” Louis says, and Harry shakes his head frantically, dark hair flopping into his eyes. It’s probably stupid—no, it’s very stupid that Louis decides to turn the machine back on, to touch the needle to Harry’s skin once more, and probably immoral on several grounds, but… This job has suddenly become much, much more interesting.

Despite his promise, Harry squirms, gasping and biting the inside of his cheek raw as Louis trails the ink through his skin, and only when Harry lurches hard against the chair does Louis set the machine back down.

“I thought,” he says, fingers gripping Harry’s leg, “That you were going to try your very hardest to stay still.” And Harry groans, something rough resonating through sealed lips and a quivering chest.

“Don’t—please don’t say… don’t say that right now,” he pants, and Louis almost laughs, fingers curling around the tendon jumping in his thigh.

“I’m not going to finish this today, Harry,” Louis murmurs, and Harry opens his eyes, wide and sulky and black as ever, any trace of green having been reduced to slivers by now.

“But—”

“Not,” Louis interrupts him, “Until you calm down.”

“Can’t,” Harry grunts, clenching his teeth and squeezing the arms of the chair. “I can’t, it—”

“Do you like it?” Louis asks conversationally. “You like the gun, do you?” He swirls little circles into Harry’s knee with a firm fingertip.

“Not the gun,” Harry grits, shuddering slightly, “It’s—How it… when the needle, it feels—”

“Dear, dear,” Louis hums, “Harry, you have a bit of a pain kink, don’t you?” And it’s almost teasing, the way he simpers up at him from the floor, tracing light patterns into his skin, around the raw red of the unfinished tattoo.

“Sh’tup,” Harry sighs, chest moving up and down with each shallow breath, and Louis blinks, suddenly very aware of his own dick beginning to harden in his pants. Honestly, he’s surprised it took this long, surprised he didn’t go numb with the very first image of Harry writhing, hot and pink-mouthed, in his chair. “I… Please, Louis, I—” And when Harry says his name, a little whine of his voice, Louis goes hot.

“What?” he asks, completely unfair as he taunts him, now, playing innocent. “What would you like, Harry? What can I get for you?”

“You’re an arsehole,” Harry mutters, “Louis, I can fucking see your hard-on, okay?”

And, well. Louis had forgotten that Harry had eyes, apparently, because looking down, it’s clear that the tent of his pants could probably be seen from across the street.

“Just—”

“Need me to calm you down? Don’t like to do it yourself?” Louis asks, voice sinking as he quietly peels the latex from his hands, and Harry cants his hips up off the chair once more, the very picture of desperate. “I dunno,” Louis continues, “Don’t think that’s part of the package. You’re only paying for the tattoo, you know.”

“Please, I—” Harry begins, but he cuts himself with a heavy breathe as Louis raises a hand to wrap a forefinger around the elastic of his boxers.

“Are you going to hold still for me this time?” he murmurs, leaning forward and letting his lips fall into the divot of Harry’s smooth thigh. Fuck, it’s soft, so much softer under his mouth than it had been beneath the sticky latex of his gloves.

“Yes, I… _fuck_ ,” Harry hisses as Louis slips his hand down beneath the flannel and wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock. He’s… God, he’s massive, much bigger than Louis is, though he’d never admit to that. Still, Louis can’t help but swallow back a curse of his own as he thumbs the wet slit and cases Harry in the hot pressure of his palm. He kisses his way up Harry's thigh, careful to avoid the fresh ink lying deep in his skin, until he feels the hem of his boxers brush his nose.

"These are ridiculous," he mouths into the corner of his hip, tugging at the flannel. "Get them out of here."

"I like them," Harry pouts, but hitches his thumbs into the elastic and shimmies them down his legs all the same.

This time, Louis can't silence the falter of his breath as Harry cock appears, hard and hot and leaking gently down over the sharp hollows of his hipbones. His core coiling, burning in his middle, Louis readjusts himself between Harry's straddled legs and latches his mouth onto the head, running his tongue around the swell and suctioning tightly with his cheeks. Harry's hips stutter, and he throws his head back against the soft leather of the chair, face turning white once more. Louis arches his neck, grips the base of his cock in his fingers and goes down, wrapping him in the tight heat of his throat. He bobs his head, alternating between pushing his tongue into the underside of his cock and sucking him further into his mouth, until the pulsing head hits the back of Louis' throat and he can taste pre-come on the beds of his cheeks. He slowly pulls of, moving hit lips wetly over the crown until he can look Harry in the eye, and at the sight of him lying ruined and hot in the middle of Louis' tattoo parlor, moisture beading his dark eyelashes and coating his bottom lip, Louis nearly comes on the spot.

Instead, he licks his lips, runs the tip of his nose down the length of Harry before taking him down once more, until his eyes begin to water, until his nose is brushing the downy curls dusting the base of Harry's cock.

"Louis," Harry gasps, back arching up off of the leather and heart thudding, "Louis, stop, I'm going to—”

Louis slowly runs his mouth over Harry until he's licking wetly at the tip, and he pushes himself to his feet, climbing over Harry's outstretched legs to straddle his thighs. Harry pulses hot and hard between them, and he lies panting heavily in the chair.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Louis tisks, spitting into his palm and running his hand roughly over Harry's cock, "You haven't been a very good boy for me, have you? Squirming in my chair, keeping me from doing my job..." He jerks his wrist, sending friction buzzing through his fingers, and Harry groans, eyes turning glassy before he squeezes them shut. "Walking in here asking for a tattoo of a fucking _whale_ —”

"I... I like the whale, it's... _fuck_ , Louis, shit, I’m—” And with a squeeze of his belly, muscles tightening and jumping beneath that silly butterfly, he's coming with a shout, spilling up over Louis' twisting hand and down his wrist, dripping onto Harry's hips.

"Jesus," Louis breathes, his own boner painfully hard and hot in the tight trap of his jeans (why the fuck were those still on?).

"See," Harry breathes, shaking and sweating as he goes limp in the chair, chest heaving. "Sperm whale."

“Oh, my—oh my _god_ ,” Louis groans, and Harry giggles feebly, suddenly looking like a child despite having just come in the middle of a tattoo parlour."I shouldn't even.. Jesus, what the fuck am I doing?" he shakes his head, and, pulse throbbing hot in his veins, he ducks to lick a trail through the mess on Harry's stomach.

"Shit," Harry breathes, eyes darkening as he looks up at Louis, at the sight of his own come dripping from his lips, and his hand jumps frantically down to his red cock. "Fuck, Louis, c’mere—” And he's finally sitting upright, wrapping his fingers around Louis' hips and hitching him up into his lap.

And if Harry has a pain kink, then Louis has a size kink, because when he sees that Harry lifts him almost effortlessly with hands that span the width of Louis' hips, another wave of heat rolls quick and heavy through his middle. Suddenly, he feels as desperate at Harry looked as Louis had inked that stupid whale into his skin, and he can't help but drag his hips roughy down into the hollows of Harry's, and Harry exhales, breath stuttering and cheeks blotching pink once more as he tucks his fingers into the tight waist of Louis' jeans and pulls.

"Want to—” Louis groans, something high and breathy streaming from his mouth as Harry shucks the jeans off of his ankles and tosses them to the floor to sit beside his own boxers. "Wanna ride you," And Harry swears, slowly growing hard beneath Louis once more.

"Yeah, yeah," he pants, and Louis makes a small noise of agitation before slipping this fingers beneath the hem of Harry's sweater and pushing it up his chest and over his shoulders. Harry raises his arms to tug the thing from his head, and when the mass of soft cotton slips from his palms, Louis goes weak, because the tattoos he'd seen on Harry's forearms had only been a fraction of the ink he's wearing beneath his skin.

The vast majority of them are also very stupid, some of the worst being plain black shapes like a heart and a star, and there's something that must be a thumbs-up hiding in the tender flesh of his upper arm. But there are others - two intricately drawn swallows in flight over the plates of his chest, a gorgeous ship with its sails billowing, a pretty little birdcage, and even a pretty cursive g that is almost endearingly simple - that are breath-taking. Louis wants to show him his own tattoos, tell him it seems they've both got a liking for nautical themes, wants to explain the stories behind each one and even hear the stories behind Harry's (but maybe not the one about the mermaid). But that can wait. He's got other things on his mind.

Harry brings a hand to Louis' neck and tugs him gently forward to push their mouths together, bitten lips moving frantically over bitten lips and tongues licking shyly into one another's mouths. Harry runs his thumbs down the cut of Louis' jaw, skimming his hands over his waist and dipping down to cup the swell of his bum. Louis stifles a whimper as alternating patches of rough callouses and the soft, gentle pads of long fingers grip into the sensitive skin, and Harry lets his fingertips crawl into the crease and run slowly down his perineum until a careful forefinger touches the tight pucker of Louis' hole, dry and hot. Louis arches his back, hips pushing down into Harry's palms, and their lips detach as his head falls back, letting light onto the sweat-slicked column of his throat.

"Lube?" Harry murmurs as he fastens his mouth onto a tender stretch of Louis' neck, licking slowly down into the hollow of his bowing collarbone. _Shit,_ why hadn't he grabbed that before? The last thing Louis wants to do is crawl off of Harry and into the break room, where he knows his coworker keeps a bottle. He whines, sounding remarkably like a child who doesn't want to get out of bed, and Harry smiles into his shoulder.

"Wait, I—will this work?" he mumbles, leaving Louis' skin cold and wet as he turns to reach for the tub of Aquaphor sitting on Louis' cart, and Louis nearly cries with relief. It's something he gives to his clients to keep their new tattoos from chapping, but it will be more than effective in this.. this _scenario._

"Yes, yes, just fucking—” he grits, grinding his aching crotch down onto Harry's cock, now pink and just as hard as it had been before, and Harry dips a couple of his fingers into the thick ointment before bringing his hand back to Louis' bum and stroking the smooth stuff right over his rim. Louis sighs shakily at the wet contact, hips moving minutely in little circles until Harry grips his ribs in one hand and parts Louis' cheeks with the other, rubbing a finger deliberately into the pucker of his hole. He pushes, applying more and more pressure until he finally breaches him with a thin fingertip.

"Hell, you're tight," Harry breathes, their foreheads knocking gently together as they pant, the taste of one another's mouths still hot on their tongues. "Fuck." And he pushes again, driving his finger further into Louis' bum and sending him into a fit of shaking hands and knees.

"Go," Louis pants, "I... Another, c'mon."

"You're good, babe," Harry murmurs, pressing a kiss into Louis' shoulder as he tucks his ring finger into the first and carefully wedges the two past his hole. Louis whines, jaw clenching and cheeks hollowing sharply with ardour as he rolls his hips down, trying hard to ride Harry's fingers, and Harry begin to thrust them in and out, gently at first, and then more fervently as Louis' breathes grow more and frequent, more needy. "God, you're so fucking desperate, Lou," Harry stamps the words into his neck, his chin, the rising line of his throat, "Look at you, fucking yourself on my hand," He nips at the soft skin between Louis' ear and jaw, kissing a lavender bruise into the dark flush that has been rising from Louis' toes since Harry stepped into the parlour.

Harry pulls his fingers from Louis' arse and returns to the red pucker with three, pressing intently and pushing them up with a soft exhale, a clench of his forearm, and a moment later the longest of those nimble extremities nudges something inside that has white popping before Louis' eyes. He gasps, breath tripping on its way to his lungs, and he falls forward onto Harry's chest, forearms pressing tight to the fading swallows and fingers gripping the ridges of his shoulders. Harry thrusts again, this time hitting Louis' prostate dead-on, and Louis cries out, a muffled little thing that he buries in the hot skin of Harry's neck.

"Stop, stop, Harry, I'm gonna—” he cuts himself off with a moan as Harry gives a particularly forceful jab of his fingers and simply pushes, exerting endless, indescribable pressure on Louis' prostate, and Louis' veins buzz. After two quick plunges of his three fingers, Harry tugs them free from the heat, leaving Louis tipping back and forth on the peak of orgasm. "H-harry," he breathes, shaking as he lays his forehead down on his chest, hole clenching around unpleasantly cool air, vying for _something_ , something warm and solid to fill the empty space. "Please, fucking—”

"You're okay, it's okay, I've got you," Harry breathes, breath hot and damp on Louis' cheek, and once he's collected a fingerful of Aquaphor from the tub, he coats his rigid dick in the ointment and grips Louis' hips in his hands. Louis presses down on the seat of the chair with his knees, rising up to hover over his crotch. Harry looks up at him, wide lips parted and still wet with the touch of Louis' mouth, and with a flutter of lashes, Louis seats his bum onto the slick head and sinks.

"Fuck," he pants, "God, Harry—” It hurts; Louis' still so tight and Harry's anything but small, but the stretch and the burn of the clinched muscle has thick waves of satisfaction crawling up Louis' middle and into his chest. As he plunges lower and lower onto Harry's dick, tiny moans of shallow pleasure trip from his mouth, stammered and cut short by each hitch of his breath, each slow, thick push of Harry into his hole. He drops, shoulders caving over the sweat-slicked butterfly on Harry's belly, and as his fists press into his chest, he digs his nails into the hot skin. Harry lurches, back arching, belly pushing up against the cave of Louis' ribs as Louis leaves scratches over his ribs, and oh, Louis had almost forgotten how they'd gotten here in the first place.

He presses his mouth into the underside of Harry's jaw and bites, sharply enough to leave ticks of scarlet in the creamy skin, and Harry gasps, head thrown back over the brim of the chair as he writhes, and he's shaking with the effort of keeping his hips still, of waiting for Louis to seat himself in his lap before moving.

By the time Louis' bum is touching Harry's thighs, he's shaking, hot with both the work of pushing himself down and the feeling of how fucking full he feels, how widely he's being stretched, how far his limits are being pushed by the sheer girth of the boy beneath him...

"Lou, I have to—Can I—” Harry pants, looking pained with the restraint of his hips, and Louis swallows, tucking his nose into Harry's cheek and murmuring, "Yeah, love, move, c'mon—”

It's all Harry needs to hear before gripping the concaves of Louis' waist and driving upward with a grunt, sending Louis rocking over his chest. Louis pushes himself upright, sinking his teeth into his lip and pressing his hips down onto Harry's cock.

"Jesus," Harry pants, "God, how are you even—fuck, _look_ at you," and he thrusts to meet Louis, pushing hard until the creases of his thighs hit the soft swell Louis' bum. Louis quickens the rate of his dropping hips, rising up and down, up and down until he's ramming himself down onto Harry's cock over and over. And fuck, he feel so fucking _deep_ , breaching Louis' core and sending solid, heavy shockwaves rippling from his prostate and up his spine.

"God, m'close," he breathes, breath shaking with each jolt of his hips, each pound of Harry's cock in his arse, each knock of their thighs, until something hot thick, and so, so heavy falls slowly over his shoulders, waving through his middle and causing his toes to curl into the chasms of Harry's knees. He whines, breaths faltering as Harry drives up once, twice, and suddenly the heat flows from his limbs as he comes over Harry's belly with a cry.

He feels limp, weak, but totally and endlessly electric as he flutters down from his high and lays his head down on Harry's chest, letting himself be rocked by the quick, sharp plunges of Harry's dick up into his bum until he feels them stutter - and then, something warm, thick and wet as he comes with a dazed groan.

Harry lifts a wincing Louis very gently off of him and sets him back down in his lap, letting his forehead drop down onto the dip of his feverish neck. They breathe quietly, damply for several long moments as the energy slowly seeps from their bodies, leaving them sticky but so, so warm as their chests press together and their lips mosh into buzzing skin.

"Well," Harry finally croaks, fingers curling over the cusp of Louis' ribs, and Louis laughs breathlessly, tonguing through his cheek at the sharp jut of Harry's bony shoulder.

"Don't think we can finish that tattoo today," he murmurs, glancing down at the half-finished whale on Harry's thigh, miraculously undisturbed.

"No," Harry shakes his head. "But you are going to finish it, right?" he peeps hopefully, a sheepish simper on his mouth as he turns to look Louis in the face.

"I dunno, do you think you can control yourself next time?" Louis asks sternly, struggling to hide his grin, and Harry giggles - after fucking Louis into oblivion, he bloody _giggles_ \- and tucks his chin into his chest like a shy kitten.

"Course not," he says, voice rough, "Why else would I ask?"

"Cheeky," Louis rolls his eyes, running a thumb affectionately over the butterfly. "I might have room for you in my schedule."

"Mm, might you?" Harry hums, pressing several warm, wet kisses into Louis' neck.

"I might," Louis breathes, suddenly quite tired as he goes slack over Harry's chest. "But that's the last time I ever tattoo a fucking whale for anyone ever again."

"Deal," Harry says with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot believe I spent actual time on this


End file.
